


From a Distance

by Jenwryn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The men had been efficient. Well trained. Well armed. Numerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From a Distance

**Author's Note:**

> We've been inhaling Person of Interest recently. We're currently near the start of Season 2. This fic has no relevance to anything in particular, it just... happened. Unbeta'd, at least in part because I haven't posted anything in over six months and, if I leave this for any length of time, it won't get posted either. Pft. No spoilers for the rest of the show, please! :3;

_Mr Reese_ , says Finch. 

The air is cooler, here. The room is small, almost painfully small, but the air is cool. Still. Silent. Within these four walls, John can hear Bear’s tail shifting patiently against the carpet. Within these four walls, John can hear Finch breathing. Outside, John can hear rough wind in fall leaves, and the hum of an occasional passing car. A church bell, across the river.

Civilisation is little more than a smudge in the distance. A smudge, through the window of their cash-in-hand cheap motel. A smudge, but John can’t see it without wondering whether a number has come up; whether a number has appeared, has rolled into the system, and they are here. They are here, and they are not there. Eighteen hours, and no-one to save a life, nor to end one.

John can see that smudge of civilisation through the window, even as he calculates exit strategies and bullet trajectories, even as his hands work locks and latches, and he has to bite down hard upon the knowledge.

Bear sits at their feet. Quiet. Waiting.

 _John_ , says Finch. 

Finch’s breathing is heavy. John had heard it before, had heard it in the car, but now they’re secure and he can hear it the better. It should be steadier, by now. It should be even. They’ve driven in circles for hours. They haven’t been shot at since dawn. Time has moved. The hands on the face of Finch’s watch have cycled. There have been breaks on backroads, for Bear to relieve himself. For Finch, for John. The sun has risen and the sun has set, and the sun has risen again. 

Finch keeps breathing. In, out, in, out, the rise and push of air from Finch’s lungs, from Finch’s nose, from Finch’s lips, from warm against Finch’s tongue. 

Fatigued. Unsteady.

John can still feel the rush of blood behind his own ears. He cannot judge. 

Finch had seemed so helplessly small, with a gun to his head.

John looks away from the window; looks away from the smudge that is the city, and looks at him. Looks at Harold.

Harold. 

There is a smudge upon Harold’s face, too. A smudge, yes, but it is not civilised. It is blood. Dry. Dull, now. Browning, as the hours tick past. Lower, and there’s another slash of old-red, seeped deep into the threads of Harold’s fine shirt; along its collar, along its delicate row of buttons. Harold’s tie is gone, knotted firmly around John’s right arm. Harold’s buttons are loose. There’s the flash of pale skin beneath, and more browned red. 

This smudge is far worse for John’s heart rate, than the smudge that is New York. 

John looks away. John looks at the faded flowers on the motel bedspread. John looks at the nondescript carpet. John looks at Bear; gives him permission for quiet exploration. John looks at the exits. Again. Again. 

So small, Harold had been, with a gun to his head. So small, with a muzzle to his skin.

The men had been efficient. Well trained. Well armed.

Numerous. 

Dead, now. Broken, on a warehouse floor. Lost, behind rusting doors. 

Calling for reinforcements, though, by way of their silence; by way of their deadlines not met and their numbers not answered.

Running is not in John’s nature, but it’s as important a skill as the rest of them. Clean your weapon. Pack your bag. Mean it when you throw a punch. But always, always know when to run. 

It’s a long time since John has had something worth running for. 

John looks at Harold. Harold’s blood. The pale skin of Harold’s neck. 

Someone. 

Someone worth running with. 

Harold is warm, against the motel wall. Harold is warm, against John’s body, where John has caught him in place. John hadn’t meant to do it, but it’s what John has done. John has pushed Harold into location, between himself and the wallpaper. John has pressed him alongside the now-locked door. Has pressed him along the length of John himself.

Warm. Here. Breathing.

John knows that he’s crowding him. John knows that it’s ridiculous. Inadvisable. Inappropriate.

But John can hear Harold breathing. 

The world outside is growing quieter still. The wind is dropping as the evening rises. A child, somewhere, is shouting. Shouting at a dog, John thinks. Bear is listening, intent, head cocked to one side.

Still, John can’t let go. Still, he can’t step back. He leans in, instead; makes it worse, tilts his face down and rests it against Harold’s hair. Inadvisable. Inappropriate. Invasive. John’s tired, John’s so very tired. He can feel the material of Harold’s shirt crumpling in his hand; realises he’s made a fist around the stiffness of dried blood on cloth. He can’t remember moving his arm. Okay. Okay. Enough. He moves back, a little. He lifts his head. He looks down.

Harold is looking up at him. Harold looks concerned, but he’s not moving. Harold is steady. Harold is unalarmed. Harold is here.

Harold raises a hand of his own. Rests his palm against John’s chest. Curls his fingers into John’s shirt. Grazes his knuckles against the solidity that is kevlar beneath cotton.

 _I’ve got you_ , Harold says. 

Harold has him. Harold has him, despite all the knowledge in Harold’s intricate brain, despite all the experiences in Harold’s intricate life; Harold has him. And maybe Harold was never crowded, and maybe Harold was fine all along, and maybe the smudge is just a smudge, because Harold is moving closer, is zeroing the space between them, and Harold smells of alive and of safe and of wool and of Harold. 

John hadn’t understood how well he knows that scent.

John makes a sound without a label. He hears it spill from his own mouth, as if from a distance. Soft. Pained.

Harold merely sighs into the touch of John’s hands, as John hunts for hidden wounds, feverish, desperate; as John runs his fingers beneath the tiny, handmade buttons; as John invades his space and as John invades his privacy. Harold sighs into him. Real. Solid. Breathing.

John’s hands spread across whole, warm skin, and John’s heart aches beneath bruised ribs. Aches, and expands. Aches, and startles.

 _John_ , says Harold. _I’m alright, really. I’m fine. The blood wasn’t mine_.

 _Harold_ , says John. _Harold._

Harold doesn’t seem as small, now. Not half as small as when they were fighting. Not nearly as small as when they were running. Harold is taller, with his hands pressed to John’s shoulders. Harold is taller, with John’s mouth open against his.

John breathes.


End file.
